


When they come for you

by Thei



Series: Cops [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bad Cops, Homophobia, M/M, Neil Hargrove Being an Asshole, Police Brutality, Slurs, basically a hate crime, very vague threats of a sexual nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thei/pseuds/Thei
Summary: Billy doesn't like cops.This is why.
Series: Cops [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748269
Comments: 25
Kudos: 101





	When they come for you

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [Gideongrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gideongrace/pseuds/gideongrace) for reading through this for me!
> 
> Please heed the tags.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

Billy crosses his hands over his chest and stares at Daniel, juts out his chin and tries to look like this isn’t the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

Daniel frowns at him. “What?”

“I can’t be –“ _friends, more than friends, whatever it is we are_ “– seen with you.”

“What? But Billy, we –“

Billy pushes him away, because he doesn’t want to hear how that sentence ends. It hurts to do it – he _likes_ Daniel, he doesn’t want to have to do this – but he’s got bruises hidden under his clothes and a slowly fading black eye, still, from four days ago when Neil confronted him about being seen ‘getting too friendly’ with another boy. Neil had proceeded to show him the error of his ways, and Billy had only been let out of his room today, in order to ‘let that faggot know that no son of mine will be dragged into that kind of company’ – Neil’s words, not his.

Billy is fifteen – almost sixteen – years old, and he’s _not_ in love with this boy who is standing in front of him, looking confused. He’s _not_. Because that would make this too hard – ending something that never really had a chance to begin.

“Didn’t you hear what I said? I can’t be seen with you. Whatever this is –“ He gestures between them, “– it’s not what you want it to be." _True_. “I’m not like you.” _Also true; Daniel is much better than Billy, in every way_. “So fuck off.” _Please. Please leave, and make this easier on the both of us._

Daniel looks hurt, and Billy needs to drive his point home, so he puts a hand to Daniel’s chest and pushes him again, harder. Daniel stumbles back, and his face twists up. Confusion, hurt, anger. And Billy wants to crumble, but he can’t, so he gets angry instead.

“I said, _fuck off_.”

He’s wondering if he’s going to have to hit him, when Daniel looks at someone behind Billy, and a second later Billy feels a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder.

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

Billy turns, and is faced with two uniformed police officers; one of them is looking down on Billy, and the other one is hanging back, hands casually resting on his belt. Billy feels the color drain from his face – he has been escorted home by the police a couple of times in his life, when he’s been drunk or getting in trouble with his friends, and Neil has always made him pay for it.

“No”, he says. “We’re all good. Sir.” Because it might help to be respectful.

The man closest to him – a giant of a man, with a bushy moustache and greasy hair – narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on Billy’s shoulder.

“You’re Neil Hargrove’s boy, aren’t you?”

_Shit._

“Yes sir”, Billy says and averts his eyes.

The man looks at his partner, who nods at Daniel and dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Take a hike, kid.”

And Daniel, who was ready to throw hands with a drunk senior for Billy barely a week ago, doesn’t even spare Billy a glance, now. He just nods, and turns to leave. And it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does – Billy was the one trying to drive him away a minute ago, after all – but he suddenly has to swallow around a lump in his throat. He blinks rapidly a couple of times before straightening up and meeting the man’s gaze.

“We’ll drive you home”, the man says, making Billy hesitate. He hasn’t done anything wrong this time, but if the police take him home, Neil will _think_ that he’s done something wrong, and punish him for it.

“It’s okay”, he tries. “I can walk. It’s not far.”

The man huffs out a laugh and shares a look with his partner, who looks equally amused. “Nice try, kid. Get in the car.”

Billy does _not_ want to get in the car, and for a second he considers running. As if the man senses what he’s thinking, he grabs Billy’s arm with his other hand and steers him towards the car parked on the corner, where his partner is just getting in.

They put Billy in the back, and it’s not like Billy hasn’t ever been in the back of a police car before, but the other times he has either been drunk or squeezed in between his friends. Somehow this time – him being sober, and without having actually done anything – is more unsettling than the other times combined.

He tries again, when the man with the moustache closes the door and gets in the passenger seat. “I can walk home. I haven’t done anything wrong, sir.”

The partner stops with his hand on the key in the ignition, and raises his head so he’s looking at Billy in the rearview mirror. “People like you don’t have to _do_ anything to be wrong.”

The way he says it punches all the air out of Billy’s lungs. He wants to ask, but doesn’t dare speak. He wants to run, but the doors are locked. So he leans back in his seat and tries to keep his face neutral.

Neither of the men say anything when they start the car and drive off. They don’t ask where Billy lives, and Billy doesn’t mention it until they turn onto a street that will lead them _away_ from his house. For a second, he thinks they’ve changed their mind – that they’ll take him down to the station for some reason. Having Neil pick him up at the station would be bad, but perhaps not _as_ bad as being escorted to his doorstep, where the neighbors will see. For a second, Billy feels something like hope – that is, until he realizes that the police station is in the other direction, too.

“Um”, he says and points over his shoulder. “I live that way?”

They don’t react; act as if he didn’t even speak. And Billy’s getting nervous now. “Hey! You’re going the wrong way!”

The man with the moustache turns his head and glances back. “From what we’ve heard, so are you.”

Billy doesn’t get it, leans forward and reaches for the back of the man’s headrest. “What are you talking about, I –“

“Sit down!” the man says, harshly, giving Billy a look that makes him want to curl up and hide. “And shut the fuck up.”

And Billy knows that tone of voice. He knows it means trouble if he doesn’t obey, even if he’s never seen this man before. So he sits back, and he shuts up. His heart is beating like a drum in his chest.

They don’t speak again for the rest of the drive. Billy looks out through the window, tries to keep track of where they’re going. But it’s not long before they’re leaving the parts of the city that he knows behind, and soon they are in an area he doesn’t recognize, where he has never been. He still tries to remember the way. Just in case this ends badly, and he has a chance to run.

Still, he is hopelessly lost by the time they pull up behind a low brick building that looks like it’s been a store at one point. It’s closed now, with shuttered windows and a chain around the doors, but that doesn’t matter because they’re driving around the building anyway, to a tiny parking lot surrounded on three sides by brick walls, with a dumpster in one corner.

The man who’s driving turns the engine off, and both officers get out of the car.

At this point, Billy’s just hoping that maybe they’re just running an errand, maybe if he doesn’t make a sound they’ll forget he’s even there, maybe –

But the man with the moustache opens the door and reaches in, pulls Billy out without effort. Billy stumbles, but manages to right himself. He swallows.

“What are you doing?” he asks, somehow managing to steady his voice.

The man slaps him.

It’s not a hard hit – he’s gotten worse hits for spilling water back home – but it’s jarring, because he’s never seen these men before today. It drives home just how vulnerable he is.

“You don’t speak”, the man says as his partner walks up next to him. Billy backs up, eyes wide.

“We’ve heard things about you”, the partner says, pointing a meaty finger in his face. “That you’re a dirty little faggot.”

“And guess what”, the other one says. “We don’t like faggots here.” He reaches out to push Billy back – just how Billy had been pushing Daniel, less than an hour ago. Billy’s back hits the wall, and he’s suddenly aware of that no one from the street can see them from here. He wonders if anyone would hear him if he screamed for help. If anyone would come.

He thinks, _Probably not_ , but licks his lips in preparation to try anyway. But before he gets a chance to, the bigger man slaps his hand over Billy’s mouth, hard. The back of Billy’s head hits the bricks, and he grimaces. “Don’t even try it, kid. No one’s coming for you.”

The other one laughs. “And even if they did, do you really think anyone would believe you over us? A fairy like you?”

“I’m not a–“ Billy starts as soon as the man removes his hand from his mouth, but jumps as he snarls; “I told you, _you don’t speak_!” while the other laughs and grabs at Billy’s hair.

“Oh you’re not? With this hair?” He gives it a pull, yanking Billy’s head back and exposing his throat. “The fucking _jewelry_?” One of them nudges his earring, and then pulls on his necklace so hard that the chain breaks; snaps, leaving a stinging line on the back of his neck. “Sure you’re not.” The voice is dripping with sarcasm, with disdain. Billy winces, squeezes his eyes shut. Hears the sound of the necklace hitting the asphalt.

“Look at me.” Someone slaps him. “ _Look_ at me!” Another slap, harder this time, and Billy looks up. There are tears in his eyes and he can’t stop them from falling. He’s shaking in the man’s grip, and his chin is trembling.

“Awww, are you _crying_?”

“Pathetic.”

“I’ll give you something to cry about.”

And one of them, the partner, lets go of Billy’s hair and reaches back, and when he brings his hand back he’s holding his gun and Billy’s knees almost give out. He shakes his head, desperately, tears falling freely now, can’t help the way he begs, _“No, no, please don’t, please”_ even though they’ve told him not to speak.

“Schhh”, the man says, almost gently, as he slowly drags the gun from Billy’s temple and down his tear-stained cheek. “Shut up.”

“Shut him up”, the other one comments, as an aside, and the muzzle of the gun is suddenly at Billy’s lips. He’s crying for real now, sobbing, but squeezing his lips shut, still shaking his head.

“Come now”, the man cajoles. “Open up.”

But Billy can’t. He _can’t_! He’s terrified, he hasn’t done anything wrong, and he just wants to go _home_. The man with the moustache punches him in the gut – not very hard, but enough for Billy to gasp and bend forward. That’s enough for the other man to wrench the gun into Billy’s mouth, and then he presses it in so Billy has no choice but lean his head back against the brick wall.

There’s a gun in his mouth and he can’t breathe.

It’s solid and unyielding, because it’s metal, and the hard angles of it hurt him when the man pushes it back, and Billy gags but can’t move out of sheer terror. His eyes are closed, and he’s _crying crying crying_ but it doesn’t help; doesn’t stop the man from angling it so it scrapes along Billy’s teeth, against the roof of his mouth. It tastes like grime, like oil, like death. Billy wants to throw up.

There’s a _gun_ in his mouth and he can’t _breathe_.

The man leans in – Billy can feel his breath against his ear – and says, “What’s the matter, kid? Aren’t you fags used to having big things in your mouths?”

The man pushes back again, and the gun hits the back of Billy's throat and it _hurts_ and he chokes on it and lets out a sob, a whine, a gargled _“Please!”_ and all it does is make the men laugh. There’s a _click_ , and Billy’s heart skips a beat and he grows desperate, because he doesn’t want to die.

Billy is fifteen years old, and he _doesn’t want to die_.

“Please, please, please”, he tries to beg around the gun in his mouth, tries to shake his head even though he’s not allowed to move. The words won’t come out right, they’re more sounds than actual words, but the men seem to understand him anyway. Billy lurches forward when the man who was holding him up suddenly drops him. The gun is ripped from his mouth painfully and he falls to his hands and knees on the asphalt, coughing and gagging and crying.

“Please …” he’s still begging, still shaking his head, while backing away. Then he's pressing up against the wall, holding out one trembling hand in front of him as if he would be able to protect himself.

Laughable, really. The men seems to think so, too. One of them bends down, swats Billy’s hand to the side with zero effort, and grabs him by the hair again. He pulls Billy up to his knees and wrenches his face up. Billy’s hands fly to the man’s hand in his hair, trying to lessen the pain, but the man only grabs one of Billy’s wrists in his other hand and pulls it back against the wall over Billy’s head. The other man, the one with the moustache, gets closer, grabs Billy’s face.

“You hear that?” he says to his partner. “’Please’. The little shit’s begging for it.” He looks Billy in the eye when he continues, “Maybe the gun wasn’t to his taste. Maybe he wants a big fat cock to suck on instead.”

Billy snaps his mouth shut and he can’t – he can’t –

He panics. There’s no other word for it. His mind blanks out and he doesn’t know what’s happening – all he knows is that he has to get away, he has to get _away_! He’s writhing in the man’s grip, and clawing at whatever he can reach. He’s hyperventilating, drawing short panicked breaths, and doesn’t hear the men swearing, barely notices when they shake him, slap him around.

A hard punch to the temple is what finally fells him. He hits the ground hard and for a while, everything is spinning around him and he thinks he’s going to pass out. The thought makes him panic enough that he opens his eyes, tries to make them focus.

He’s lying on the dirty ground, curled up with his back to the wall. When the world stabilizes around him, he sees the men standing over him and he whimpers, crawls backward until he hits the dumpster. His fingers touch something metal on the ground – his necklace. He closes his hand around it out of instinct, but any relief it might have brought him to find it again is blown away when a shiny shoe stomps down just in front of his face. He flinches badly, puts his arms around his head and curls up into a ball. Cries, but silently now; afraid to make a sound, although he can’t stop the occasional hiccupping sob.

He hears one of the men speak. “Enough?”

“Yeah.”

One of them reaches for him, and he’s already pressed as far back as he can but he still tries to make himself smaller, tries to blend in with the wall.

“Get up, kid. Get. _Up_!”

There’s a hand around his wrist, and then the man with the moustache is pulling him to his feet. His legs won’t carry him, so he’s basically dangling from the man’s grip as he drags him back to the car. He’s thrown into the backseat again, where he scrambles back as soon as the man lets go of him – he curls up against the opposite door, and recoils when the partner taps on the window behind him on his way to the driver’s seat.

They start the car, drive off. Billy isn’t looking out the window anymore. Isn’t trying to memorize the way, or figure out where they’re going. He’s only staring at the men in the front seat, eyes wide and closing his fingers around his necklace so hard that it hurts. His breath hitches when the one driving moves to shift gears, and he flinches when the man with the moustache reaches out to adjust the AC. Neither of them so much as looks at Billy, though. It doesn’t help. Tears are still falling from his eyes, and his nose is so stuffed with snot he has to breathe through his mouth. He does it as silently as possible, as to not draw attention to himself. He doesn’t move from his corner – doesn’t even put a seatbelt on.

When they pull up on Billy’s street and park outside his house, the man with the moustache turns in his seat and points his finger at Billy’s face.

“Get your shit together, kid, or the next time, your father will get you back in pieces. Do you understand? We don’t want any faggots here, you hear me?”

Billy, who suddenly can’t breathe again, nods.

“Say it.”

“Yes sir”, Billy says, and it’s no louder than a whisper and he doesn’t recognize his own voice, but it seems to satisfy the man.

They get out of the car, and the partner – the man who forced his gun into Billy’s mouth – opens the door behind Billy. Billy all but falls out on the pavement, but manages to right himself when the man reaches out to grab him. Billy flinches, backs up, starts shaking his head –

– but the man with the moustache is there, behind him, with his heavy hand slamming down on Billy’s shoulder again, and Billy has to fight to stay upright. He’s shaking, breathing erratically and cannot stop the tears – but surely they’re not going to kill him on his father’s doorstep?

Neil might kill him, for bringing the police to the house again, but at least that’s something Billy’s used to. The devil he knows, or whatever.

He finds himself wishing, for once, that his dad is home. Please, please, let his dad be home.

The partner knocks on the door, and they stand there for … it can’t be more than ten, fifteen seconds, but it feels like a lifetime. What if Neil isn’t home? If no one is home? What will they do to him, then? Will they take him away again, will they –

The door opens, and Neil is standing there with a frown on his face, and Billy is so relieved he could cry. He _does_ cry; chokes out “Dad!”

He takes an aborted step forward and lets out a strangled sob when the grip on his shoulder stops him.

“Good evening, officers”, Neil says after glancing briefly at his mess of a son. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Oh there’s no problem”, the man with the moustache says. “Is there, son?”

Billy can’t form words, so he just shakes his head. The grip on his shoulder lessens, and then disappears completely. Billy’s face crumbles, and he takes a shuddering breath.

“We found him with a friend. They seemed to have had a little disagreement, so we just figured we’d give him a ride home. Isn’t that right?”

Billy nods, wordlessly, and new tears form in his eyes. He’ll agree to anything as long as they let him go. He’s so close. So close to home. He just wants to … get in the house. Past his dad, away from these men. _Please_. He stares at his dad, tries to look strong, be the kind of son that Neil will let back into the house. _Please, dad, help me._

“Billy”, Neil says. “Go to your room.”

 _Thank you, thank you, thank you –_ Billy swallows, makes to move past Neil, but he is stopped by a hand gripping his arm. He barely suppresses a flinch, even though this time it’s _Neil_ holding him – this grip is _familiar_.

“Billy”, Neil says, and Billy knows what this means. Be _responsible_ , son. “Have you thanked these fine officers for giving you a ride home?”

It’s not a question. Billy knows this. His breath catches in his throat, but he steels himself. Straightens up, licks his lips (tasting salt), blinks rapidly. Then he turns, and has to force himself to look the men in the eyes. “Thank y–” His voice breaks. He tries again. “Thank you.”

Neil nods, and lets him go. Billy flees. Turns and all but runs into the house, into his room. He can’t lock the door – Neil doesn’t believe in locks on doors to teenage boys’ rooms – but he closes it, and crawls into bed. Pulls the blankets over himself, over his head, heavy and warm so it feels like he’s suffocating. Tries to forget the ache in his body, the way he can still taste blood and gun oil.

And he holds his broken necklace and he cries and he cries and he _cries_ , until he exhausts himself and falls into an uneasy sleep.

***

Billy doesn’t hear the exchange between the officers and Neil, once the three of them watched him flee into the house.

“Well, that seems to have done wonders. Thank you, Hank. George.”

“Hey, no problem. Whatever it takes, right?”

“Yeah. Whatever it takes. Still, I appreciate it.”

The man with the moustache – George, apparently – shakes Neil’s hand, claps him on the shoulder. “I think we put the fear of God in your boy, but if you ever need help again, you let us know.”

“Thank you. Really. I’ll keep it in mind. It’s for his own good. I just want to keep him away from the wrong crowds.”

“You’re a good man. A good father.”

Neil shakes Hank’s hand too, give a little nod of acknowledgement. A smile. “Give Deborah my regards, will you?”

“Will do. See you around, Neil.”

***

Billy also doesn’t hear, later that night, how the door to his room opens. He doesn’t notice Neil standing in the doorway, looking down at him in the bed – wrapped in every blanket he’s got, pressed up against the wall, curled up in a ball. Billy's face is still red from all the crying, although the tears have dried up.

Neil stands there for a long time, his hand on the handle, looking at his son. His face reveals nothing, and in the end he takes a deep breath and turns around. Walks out of the room. Quietly closes the door behind him.

***

Billy doesn’t get in trouble, this time, for being escorted home by the police. He half-expects it for the first couple of days (which he spends inside, not daring to go further than the yard), but when three days have passed and Neil still hasn’t even mentioned it in passing, he starts to think that maybe, maybe he’s in the clear.

And he is. Neil never mentions it again. Billy doesn’t, either – wanting more than anything to forget everything about that day.

It’s years before he stops tensing up at the sight of a cop car, though.


End file.
